It’s nothing really, just
a way of treasuring
things, a feasting
on the bright
world that borders
on the pathological,
on the unseemly
maw of wet nerves,
the gape that swallows
every spine, tingles even
in the absence
of signal, lusts for
every fluke of noise
covets wave
and particle alike
collapsing always,
coming home drunk
or high and falling
asleep in that deep
plexus
where all our seemings cross
where the overspill
was the light under
overpasses, was the solace
of amethysts
and deep kissing
where the numbers
of your birthday
were—write this down—
magnesium almost
and chlorophyll
and something like honey.
Paraic O’Donnell 
Reblogged this on Dark Matter Poet.
Beautiful. As usual.
>
Thanks, Liz. Glad you liked it.
Reblogged this on Exotic Maypole and commented:
This is the most beautiful poem I’ve read in ages. I wish I had synaesthesia – I have the lower end of it I guess. I was explaining to Elizabeth how when writing I will almost taste a sentence as being green, or lilac, or a bit the wrong blue. “I have exactly the same thing!” she said. Of course she did, because we are Not Quite Sisters.
Thank you so much, Kat. That’s very kind indeed.
Reblogged this on this grey spirit and commented:
I never reblog stuff (I guess I have high-falutin’ notions about the uniformity of my site, just being me and all that). But this is too good.